


Prophecies, Libels and Dreams

by Dustseeing (dustseeing)



Category: 15th Century CE RPF, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Henry VI - Shakespeare, Richard III - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Brothers, Crossover, Gen, Prophecy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-17 08:54:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2303948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustseeing/pseuds/Dustseeing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aged 12 and 9, the uncrowned King Edward V and his brother Richard were held in the Tower of London. After the summer of 1483, they were never seen again. Some say murdered; by their uncle, Richard of Gloucester; by the traitor Buckingham; by the usurper Henry Tudor. </p><p>Others say they simply vanished.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prophecies, Libels and Dreams

****  
Patience, good lady; wizards know their times:  
Deep night, dark night, the silent of the night,    
The time of night when Troy was set on fire;    
The time when screech-owls cry and ban-dogs howl,   
And spirits walk and ghosts break up their graves,    
That time best fits the work we have in hand.   
 Madam, sit you and fear not: whom we raise,    
We will make fast within a hallow'd verge. 

\- _Henry VI Part 2, Act One Scene 4_

**3 November 1470**

**The Sanctuary, Westminster**

There is a spider crawling across the Sanctuary. A spider hid King David, a spider hid the Holy Family in their flight to Egypt, a spider gave the rebel de Bruys hope when he fled the English. _It is too late, web-weaver_ , Elizabeth thinks, you cannot hide us. _Go. Go to my husband, beyond the seas, and weave a web for him. Protect him_. A spider cannot hide her now. Cannot aid her. Her enemies already know she is here. Warwick and Clarence have little love for her, but it is Margaret she fears, Margaret the she-wolf, Margaret of the devil’s brood, Margaret who once had Elizabeth’s loyalty.

Each day, they send a courtier to request that Elizabeth gives her children up. They tell her that her daughters will be safe and cared for at court, that they seek not vengeance but the true love of a ruler for their subjects. Pronouns become muddled, a triumvirate of traitors. Every breath is a shadow of an older lie. They lie when they say that safety lies in the arms of her enemies. Once, and only once, she heard her husband the King speak of his brother, a shadow cast across his mind by a towering strength. The Edmund of Edward’s memories are all that he admires in a brother, loyal, steadfast, bold and true. Elizabeth wonders whether it was only that he died young enough to never disappoint him. No, that is uncharitable. He was torn apart by Margaret, along with his father. Their heads set above the walls of York, paper crowns upon their heads. To mock them. Margaret was ever a mocker. Even now, Elizabeth is mocked, for the church nearby is named for St Margaret, and it is her bells that herald each visit from Elizabeth’s enemies.

Besides, she knows it is not her daughters they want. They are no threat. It’s the boy, born only a day ago, now hidden in her arms. An heir for her Edward. She calls the child Edward too. That way she will always have an Edward, an Edward in her arms.

The Edward in her arms is screaming. She soothes him, feeds him, beats a rhythm against his back until he belches unhappily. Edward begins to scream again. Until now, time has been a progression, a slow rush of time towards her, as she swelled with her child. Now life repeats itself, measured out by the bell of Westminster and the screams of her child.  
In the other room of the Sanctuary, there is a Welshman. She hasn’t seen him, but she can hear him. He sings softly, she cannot make out the words, although she understands the feeling that underlies them. A lullabye, for certain. _I hid a nose_ , she thinks, making good Welsh an English nonsense. His _I_ growls with a rolling _rrrr_ , and she laughs at the idea of him burying a nose somewhere in the land, to grow and flourish in English soil. She wonders what led him here, what makes him seek sanctuary.  And she wonders whether the two of them might grow old together, as her children grow up with no light, no heat, dependent on those friends who could provide her with food until... when? Until her other Edward returns? Until the French queen storms the Sanctuary, to kill the child in her arms? Futures flicker through Elizabeth’s mind. Hope grows and diminishes, taunts her, takes up her husband’s banners and in the mile of a mind’s thought, casts them into the mud to be ruined.

Around her lie the last of her court. Her daughters, who slumber through the screams. Her mother, who watches the door with a shrewd eye, as if to say- I know what comes this way, I know. Old Mother Cobb, who had helped birth Edward, who seemed as much a part of the Sanctuary as the stones themselves. Then a knock at the door below. Mother Cobb stumps out of the room and Elizabeth hears the clump of her feet down to the entry gate.

Another knock. 

 _I’m coming_ , cries Mother Cobb. 

Elizabeth listens for the clink of arms and armour, but none comes. Perhaps it’s Gould, the butcher who the strange king has allowed to supply the sanctuary-seekers with meat. Elizabeth has found herself craving good flesh, and perhaps she’ll invite the singing Welshman to sing her child a lullaby in exchange for a slice of beef.

Her thoughts, already broken, are scattered by Mother Cobb’s return. 

 _My mistress Scrope_ , she says, as the French queen’s woman enters. 

Lady Scrope, forever wide-eyed, patters across the room towards Elizabeth. Elizabeth holds Edward closer to her, instinctively drawing back from the newcomer, but the Lady Scrope doesn’t notice, only lets her mouth hurry them all away on a babbling river. Lady Scrope was sent to spy- for certain she was- but Elizabeth thinks her enemies will have little patience for her mistress Scrope’s news. Blue eyes and a bonny nose and soft dark hair, those are secrets Elizabeth could hardly expect to keep. But Mother Cobb is putting a bundle in the corner, and Elizabeth groans. 

  
 _I’ve come to stay awhile_ , says Lady Scrope with a smile, _I know you’ll need help with your darling little one, your gorgeous little child, has he a name, is he to be baptised, oh if only his father were here-_

  
- _if he were, he would be as helpless as the child, and in more danger_ , snaps Elizabeth, and Lady Scrope sniffs in surprise, goes over to her bundle and begins to unwrap a necklace of amber, _for the baby, you see,  to soothe him, now you get some rest, there is no need to worry, I’ve raised many a child in my time-_

  
Elizabeth lets the words wash over her, takes out her rosary, begins a prayer for comfort. Not from God, for Elizabeth feels she has wearied God long enough over the last few months, but from her mother, Jacquetta, who can hear her thoughts and will turn Elizabeth’s curses to blessings, if she asks.  
   
If she asks her mother, Jacquetta can curse Lady Scrope, turn her flesh dark with green fire, or leave her bloodied and choking on the flagstones.

If she asks her mother, Jacquetta can silence the Lady Scrope, turn her wittering to gasping chokes.

If she asks her mother, Jacquetta can spirit them away, whisk them off in a burst of green fire.

If she asks her mother.

But to give birth and then disappear - no. She cannot attaint her marriage with the whisper of witchcraft. She had made her Edward love her, yes, but not with magic, but with her own charms, her own love. She knows she did, no matter what her mother might imply, no matter what her Edward’s brothers whisper. No. She remembers what happened to Eleanor Cobham, shamed before England in white gown and candle. She cannot do that to herself. She cannot do that to her Edwards. She must remain here, and hope. And pray.

Across the wall, the spider weaves its web.

***

_**Item.**  That no man sit at his board, but such as shall be thought fit by the discretion of the Earl Rivers, and that then be read before him such noble stories as behoveth to a prince to understand and know; and that the communication at all times in his presence be of virtue, honour, cunning, wisdom, and of deeds of worship, and of nothing that should move or stir him to vice._

**29 September, 1479  
**

**Ludlow Castle, Shropshire**

Edward lies in the darkness, urging the shadows on the wall to stop moving. He wants to sleep but his mind will not let him. He knows he will be roused before dawn. His father has set down rules for every hour of his life. First will come his uncle Anthony, or one of his deputies. Then mass. He’ll break his fast on bread and milk and honey, served by men and boys wearing his livery. Then lessons- the Trivium now, and after dinner, hunting, or riding, or perhaps tilting at the pavo. Edward doesn’t remember war. His uncle Rivers says peace is not idleness, and he must learn- is even _eager_ to learn- for one day he will no longer be a prince but a king. _The_ king. With the weight of a nation on his shoulders, and a crown ever tight around his brows. Once his father let him wear his crown. As it slid over his face to sit like a necklace around his throat, his uncle Richard frowned and protested. 

 _Too many have died to make light play of such symbols, brother_ , that was what he said.

  
His father only laughed. _Every father in the world sees his son follow in his footsteps. Every father but kings. So don’t you dare deny me this pleasure._

 _Your majesty has never been denied a pleasure_ , said his uncle Richard, and shrugged his high shoulder. When the Duke of Gloucester was gone, his father had turned to Edward and said, _does it feel heavy?_

And Edward does not wish to disappoint his father, does not dare to pretend the weight of the crown pressing down is anything more than a paper crown, and says, _yes_ and smiles.

 _Yes. Good lad. The crown is nothing, nothing at all. What’s important-_ he tapped Edward’s head- _is there._

Those were the last true words his father told him, for Edward has not left Ludlow in almost a year. His uncle George has died- when his uncle Rivers repeated the news, Edward could not . His youngest sister was born only months ago. Already she has been promised to a prince in Castile. He himself has been promised to a princess of Brittany. These are the webs that tie Europe together, so that the enemies that threaten them might be caught. What enemies?  Old Henry Lancaster is dead. That other Edward of Westminster, old King Henry’s son, is long-slaughtered, now only a boggart in the York children’s minds. No enemies remain. Edward should rest easy in his bed. 

He finds he does not. His uncle will come to wake him soon. He sleeps. He wakes. He drifts.

He dreams fitfully, of spiders and snakes and slithering things that crawl through green grass to die. Of stone breaking, a snaking river, and a white tower, clawing its way from the ground. It has come to devour him. He knows he will be killed there. As he should have been killed in the Sanctuary, as his father should have been killed a multitude of times over. There is penance to be made, for the death of a king. He knows not who might kill him. Perhaps it doesn’t even matter. Someone will steal into his dream like first light on a winter morning, and they will end him. He knows this as sure as he knows he is dreaming.

When he wakes, the shadows have congealed and the curtains surrounding his bed have been thrown back. There is a man in the corner of the room. 

 _Uncle?_ he asks, and the shadow does not move. Edward almost rolls over to sleep again, but he speaks with eyes closed. He suddenly realises he is dreaming, because the man is a wizard now, with wand in hand and sparks in his eyes and whiskers. The room is cold with silence. There are no birdcalls. The wind does not blow. The bed does not creak and the last embers of the fire do not crackle.

Edward slides his hand towards his poniard, under the pillow. When he reaches it, it burns hot in his hand. He clutches it anyway, though he winces at the pain.

 _Caution, boy-o,_ says the wizard. _Caution. I have not come to harm you._

The poniard is cold again. His hand still aches.

 _Do I know thee?_ he asks, not expecting an answer. _Are you my uncle River’s man?_

_I am not._

_What do you want from me?_

The wizard looks at him as if watching a falcon far off in the sky, sent out for the first flight. Well trained, perhaps, but not proven, and very distant.

 _Your grandmother, Jacquetta, she was one of us_ , says the Welshman. _Your uncle’s aunt, Eleanor of Gloucester, she was one of us too. Your mother- well. Your grandfather kept her from us, by his blood and by desire, or else she might have gone abroad, to learn from the French._ The Welshman smiles and begins to lie. _And yet here you are, the son of a king. The blood of magic shall be the blood of England once more._

 _I don’t understand,_ says Edward, although he thinks he does. Sometimes things happen. Things he can’t truly explain. Things go missing. One time tilting at quintains, his horse had shied and almost fell, but something- his own desperation, perhaps- had kept the horse up. A candle lit itself without a touch of flame. When he wants to hide, he is hidden- and there should be no hiding at Ludlow, not from the retinue of his own men that must keep him safe.

_You are only nine now. When you are eleven, you will come to us, to learn from us how to control your power. I tell you this now so that you are ready when the time comes._

Edward says _but my father,_ and means _but my kingdom_. The Welshman seems to read his mind.

 _When you have learned your lessons, you will return to rule. No enemy will dare touch you. Your father will be made to understand,_ says the wizard, _and if he does not, then there are others. There are prophecies and there are plots. Either will suit our purposes._

_And will I come back?_

For a moment, the wizard looks less like a man and more like one of the fair folk, come to take Edward away to some hollow hill for ever and a day. 

 _You fear me, little prince. Well, I I am not one of the tylwth teg, Edward. I come in the form of a friend and a teacher, to tell you that unless you are prepared to learn, you will lose more than your crown. Tell me, what have you learned in this place?_ asks the Welshman.

 _Grammar_ , replies the Prince in his dream.

_It is good that you know grammar. To make symbols manifest. Then logic?_

_Yes_ , says Edward.

_That is good. Those thoughts must be refined. And then…_

The man makes a flourish with his stick, whispers a burst of Latin. The shadows vanish and for a moment, starlight dances in the air, and a rush of voices fill the room.

 _Rhetoric_ , says the Welshman. _Would you want to learn this Trivium?_

And Edward does want to learn, learn to make darkness to light, learn to make heaviness into lightness. To rest easy in his bed in the night-time.

_Then I promise you. When you are of the right age, we will come for you._

From that night on, Edward sleeps very well indeed. He knows now that the devouring tower isn’t a prophecy. It’s a promise.

*******

_And here also we considre howe the said pretensed marriage, betwitx the above named King Edward the Elizabeth Grey, was made of grete presumption, without the knowyng or assent of the lords of this londe, and alsoe by sorcerie and wiche-crafte, committed by the said Elizabeth and her moder, Jacquett Duchess of Bedford, as the common opinion of the peole and the publique voice, and fame is through all this land; and hereafter, if and as the case shall require, shall bee proved sufficiently intyme and place convenient._

-Titulus Regius

  
 **22 August 1482**

**Berwick Castle**

 Berwick Castle squats over the mouth of the Tweed, grunting down to the water like a thirsting hog. The English army is waiting, a mass of twenty thousand men under the command of Gloucester. They have come to put the Duke of Albany on the throne of Scotland, although in truth Edward cares less for this and more for the dowry of his daughter Cecily. Richard wants Berwick.

-wants many things, he confesses, in his aside to an unknown audience-

It’s the last thing Margaret of Anjou had taken that they can still reclaim. Their father is dead and buried. Edward is on the throne-

 _-_ consumptive, gasping, a rotting rutting blight, barely shored up in the mire of his country _-_

-and his sons safe. His daughters secure. So what now remains to them but meddling in the affairs of other nations?

  
Richard is looking over the King’s Ordnance, though in truth he thinks of them as his own. His ribauldequin, five narrow pipes in a row like a family in bed, will be of no more use here than an idle piper's instrument. That piece will have to wait until the Scots are met on the field. But next to them, imported from Burgundy, are three falconets, their narrow muzzle blazoned with a falcon in flight. He puts a hand to trace the raised design, cold to the touch now but ready to grow hot with life. This is the future, these are forged prophecies of power.

There is a Welshman watching him. Richard knows the man is Welsh; dark features and the far-off look he associates with the breed. When he speaks, Richard’s suspicions are confirmed.

_You are the King’s brother, are you not?_

Richard nods. He is not often in the habit of talking to the Jacks, though he has nothing against them, save his place in the world.

_I thought so. You have your father’s looks._

\- a strange construction, even for a Welshman-

\- true, though, his mother always told him he took after his father, save for the snaking structure of his spine. These Yorks were delicate, hiding the promise of power, like one of his new guns. Edward is nothing like them

\- tall, broad of shoulder, an altogether different breed of dominance-

\- no, nothing like his father at all.

 _You knew my father?_ The Welshman looks just old enough. _Where from?_

 _A trial,_ says the Welshman, _for witchcraft._

 _-_ an honest answer, though not a helpful one.

_Your own?_

_No, and aye._

_That is no answer_ , says Richard, who is tiring of this quickly.

 _Aye_ , says the Welshman again, or perhaps, thinks Richard, he is saying _Eye_. That was it, thinks Richard. The Jourdemayne witch, Margaery of Eye, the one that destroyed the Duke of Gloucester and his wife Eleanor. The Welshman has locked eyes with him, he sees the recognition on his face-

_You are quick, Richard of Gloucester. Now, I have words to speak to you, whether you will it or not._

The Welshman is no threat-

\- he does not know why he thinks that, save for the Welshman's guiltless eyes. Richard looks to his guns-

\- the Welshman is a threat.

 _In here,_ Richard says gruffly, gesturing to his tent. In a clock’s stroke has decided to kill the Welshman by his own hand. Easier perhaps to take him as a spy. Would the army sleep any better to know of a cursing Welsh warlock working for the Scots? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Still, his brother had been led astray by these witches. This will be a sort of revenge. If his sister-in-law was killed outright by poison, his brother was killed by prophecies and dreams-

\- and a penchant for treason.

Already George’s discords are being washed away by a sea of time. Drowned in a butt of malmsey wine, said the vice Rumour. Rumour lied. Richard knew that the only liquid George drowned in was his own claret-red blood, when one of the King’s men slit his throat from ear to ear. Edward would never have drowned George in wine. His brother’s humour did not run to such irony. Richard himself might have done it, but instead he had kept silent and let George destroy himself. Anne was at Middleham, where he could not seek comfort. Instead he had punched at a wall until his own blood mottled his knuckles. That was his mourning, grief and anger trickling out with each burst of pain. For George the unruly. For George who was full of dreams.

The wizard is still talking, mumbling, as if holding a toad in his mouth. Inside his voice, all Richard can hear is poison, poison. Outside the tent are two of his men.  He nods to them. They know from his face what he intends, and let the flaps fall behind Richard and his victim as he draws his misericorde from its sheath.

_You will not want to kill me._

Richard stops, before the steel even grazes his victim. The wizard does not even turn around, so sure he is that Richard will agree with him. _Not yet. I did not find you here without reason. I have come to discuss your nephews._  

 _My nephews are good children and will have none of you,_ says Richard, though he hardly knows them.

_You misunderstand. Look you, it is not that they are good or ill. They are of my kind already. Please, put the dagger away. There is no need for it, and I do not wish for you to stain my robes with blood._

The words are gentle, but there is a fire underneath them, that touches Richard to a fury. 

 _The devil take you and your curses_ , he shouts, and thrusts at the wizard, and his hand is clutched by the air, and he grasps for the wizard with the other, and now his hand is blasted, he can feel only its pain, far greater than any wound has ever marked him, and the Welshman is turning-

_The devil?_

Of a sudden, his hands are fresh and healed again, and the Welshman is holding him in a hug that would rival Warwick, as if they were merchants embracing after a fortuitous deal.

 _We do not gain our ways and means through the devil, to be sure,_ whispers the Welshman in his ear. _Now sit, and listen._

The wizard begins to talk, and for a moment Richard sees that this is not a man of fear, save for the fear that any child knows of his tutor. He is back in Middleham, listening to Warwick whisper the lines of England’s past-

\- he drifts, he listens, he dreams -

\- he is stalked through the hunting grounds of memory.

 _Once, there was a cunning man who had many sons and daughters,_ says the wizard. _And these children had their own power. Power to create, and chide, to cheer and also to curse. To kill._

\- the taste of wine in his mouth, a kerchief staunching the spilt cup-

_Now, one of the children was stronger than the others, much stronger. And he began to think, why should I be obliged to my brothers? Why should I live among them, when they are so much weaker? When they cannot see what is in front of their own faces?_

\- three suns dim and die in the clouds - 

 _And yet you would not kill your brother, would you? No. And it is hard to leave a brother. So we still live with you, still feed and drink and work alongside you. Even love you, for we all still love our brothers, do we not? No matter what they have done. And so we have hidden from you. To keep you safe,_ he lies, _to keep you safe from our power_

\- Richard sees tall towers, hidden villages, shielded by mountains far mightier than England’s- France, perhaps, or Scotland–

_-you’re in the eye of your place, now. Did you think we are the only ones with an interest? Flamel or the Pucelle’s brats, perhaps they will come for them. Or Liz Shore might sell them to her husband's friends in the Low Countries. We do not want that._

\- night shadows flit back and forth across the water-

 

_Perhaps they would be safer left with Lord Rivers, but here is a problem, look you. We have a saying in Wales, we say the child will grow and his clothes will not. Likewise when we are young we are uncontrolled, but wary.  Like a bear that sleeps through the winter._

\- a bear, a chain, a ragged staff, the earth drinking blood-

_Then, when we are ten or eleven years of age, the magic begins to grow, and if it is constrained it will twist inside us. Worming itself around the brain. Constricting the body._

\- his hand shakes in silent sympathy. He bites his tongue-

  
 _We have suffered with you the reign of one weak king. We do not wish another.. Old Jacquetta could not be trusted, being of another country, but now she is dead and gone. Your brother_ _would not give his sons. Elizabeth-_

-Richard’s hand jumps like a spider in a bottle, seizes like Caesar, he-

_-got them by witchcraft-_

\- braces his spine, his-

_-her sons of the River will not prevent us, our settlements are growing, we must have a king, or be subject to a pottage of Potters, a mess of Malfees, fighting, feuding, you know as well as I do that this land must have peace-_

-eyes cloud over in the blue light-

_-you will give them to us, your brother’s sons, they will breed with this island, they will rule us and you will rule yours-_

\- young Rutland rides to battle, and will not return-

_\- though you would like our shadow country. There, we prize cunning, bravery, loyalty- even learning. We have the same livery, indeed, a proud boar-_

\- his arm is blasted, his power flees-

_\- though our motto is very different. As for you- Loyaulte vous lie, does it not? Loyaulte vous lie._

\- and Richard is both bound and unbound. He will resist, he will warn his brother, warn his nephews, they will be safe from this hidden world of bastard feuds and shadow kings-

_I know your mind. It would be best for you to change your colours. We will come for them when your brother dies. Have his crown for yourself, Gloucester, if you like._

Richard finds his tongue again, tastes his blood in his mouth-

_And what if I prevent you?_

The Welshman’s eyes are ice.

_Your son is often ill, is he not?_

-and there is silence, and green light, and a smell of powder burning. He is alone in his tent.

Richard sees his future. His brother will die, that much is clear. Then he must act, and act fast. He cannot trust Earl Rivers or any of the Woodvilles. These cunning men might con the country but they can be blotted out, by law or title. It will be a simple thing, a very simple thing. He will hold his nephews close to him. The Tower, perhaps. Witches might curse, but they cannot walk through stone walls. And he will wait, and he will watch, for a Welshman and his kind shall never trouble the House of York.

***

  



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